


At the Top of the Tower (In Lands Far Away)

by ohmygoshwhatascream



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cliche, Destiny, Dragon Jaskier | Dandelion, Fantasy, Fantasy elements, Fate, Fluff, Geralt is ridiculously soft in this one, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Love at First Sight, M/M, Magic, Red Dragon Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, and a bit emotionally inept
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:22:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22850938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygoshwhatascream/pseuds/ohmygoshwhatascream
Summary: Geralt is tasked with the killing of a dragon and while he does not intend to do such a thing, he feels drawn to the dragon itself. He does not know why, but he must meet this creature.What he was not expecting, however, was for the dragon to have the voice of an angel and a heart of gold.Geralt meets Jaskier, a crimson dragon with eyes bluer than the sea itself and everything changes.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 82
Kudos: 1140
Collections: THEY LOVE EACH OTHER SO MUCH





	At the Top of the Tower (In Lands Far Away)

**Author's Note:**

> Taking a short break from my ongoing fic to post this, bc it's super fuckin angsty and I just wanted to write some pure, ridiculously cliche fluff. I just adore the idea of dragon Jaskier and I had to write this.
> 
> Fantasy tropes galore! Also, this fic was a massive excuse for me to talk about pretty forests and glowy mushrooms. And unload all my personal headcanons about dragons as a species.

There's a dragon in the tower and the village wants it gone

Geralt blinks in disbelief when he's told this. A dragon, in a tower, hoarding a cacophony of riches, and he's supposed to  _ believe _ that?

It sounds more like some fanciful story strung from a book of fairytales as opposed to a real-life situation that  _ actually, genuinely exists.  _ All make-believe, all fantasy. This village is either completely and utterly insane or just ridiculously hopeful if they think Geralt is ever going to take this request seriously.

And Geralt doesn't kill dragons, as a rule. They're an endangered species, a race of creatures that have been dying out for centuries. He will not make such beautiful creatures extinct. He will not wipe their kind from upon this earth. Not now and not ever.

They're peaceful, too. Despite the rumours, despite the tales that might be spread far and wide across the continent, they are of only a pacifistic nature. They are never the aggressors, only the defenders. They are not dangerous and if they are, in most cases, it is because they are being threatened. They lash out to  _ protect.  _ They are certainly not monsters and they most certainly do not need to be slain. 

So Geralt doesn't really understand  _ why _ he's been hired for the job.

The dragon isn't  _ bothering _ anyone, really. The tower is a good few miles away from the village, in the midst of woodland where the locals rarely wander to, and the dragon isn't causing any trouble. It's not stealing livestock, it's not carrying away fair maidens or whatever shit people think dragons do. It's doing  _ nothing. _

On very rare occasions, it will spread its wings. A spark of crimson in the bluebottle sky, a flash of sharp claws and scaled snout, catching the sunlight in technicolour rainbow. The membrane of its wingspan is thin, translucent-like; and as it flies it captures the essence of sunlight in tissue paper skin and sends it across the village in a stained-glass shadow of pinkened sky.

It's… beautiful, really.

A magnificent creature. A reminder of the wonders that still remain on the continent, a reminder of the bits and pieces of the world that have been unsullied by the destruction of man, the bricks and concrete and glass that has been burned and turned to ash and smoke; the hands that have felled trees and destroyed rivers and decimated habitats all for the sake of human growth. These dragons are one of the only remaining pieces of the old world. The world of ruins and history lost to the passage of time. They are the history, dragons know more of the ground beneath one's foot and the sky above one's head than even the smartest scholars upon the Continent. They must be protected, they must be kept safe, for once the final dragon dies; there will be no more.

Geralt should move on. He should ignore these pitiful whines from humans who cannot separate fictitious stories from reality, who truly think the beast in the tower who protects their lands is a threat that must be stopped. He should not take this job, he should leave and forget about this place. They do not deserve his help, nor will he do their dirty bidding; not for all the gold in the world. 

But there is something about the dragon… it draws Geralt in. There is a connection there, something within those scarlet wings that makes Geralt's heart thump and the blood pound in his temples. He cannot place what it is, but there is something that lies between those crimson wings and the crimson of Geralt's blood. It has them intertwined and, although Geralt does not believe in destiny, he cannot help but feel like he has come here for a reason. Something has been reaching out to him. Something wants to meet him. 

So he takes the job.

It is not a good idea, to take a job you don't intend to carry out; for he has no intention of getting the dragon to leave, none whatsoever, and certainly no intention of killing it. But it gets him a room to stay in for the night, it gets him a few nervous smiles and less hatred-filled glances. He is doing them a favour so, for now, he is treated with some modicum of respect. 

He says he will head out tomorrow, see the beast with his own eyes. Take the treasure that it hoards. 

He won't. Not really. 

But they don't have to know that. Not right now, anyway. 

x

He sets out early the next morning; leaving when it is only the unlucky barmaid who works downstairs; in the off-chance that there are early risers, or perhaps travelling customers who may be interested in purchasing a room.

She stinks of fear as Geralt walks on by. It seeps from her skin like oil, a blackness that sinks from her pores and crawls on Geralt's flesh. Like bugs or beetles, the fear bites at Geralt's skin, sharp and pincer-like. 

He ignores it, he is used to this kind of reaction. He does not like it, but it is a scent he has had to put up with. No matter what he does, this will not change. Even the bravest of humans will pour out this blackness from their souls, even the most courageous of men will begin to falter under the glaze of his golden eyes, the white of his hair borne through trial and mutation. 

Humans need him but they fear him.

For many, he is a necessary evil. They want him to work, they want him to kill what troubles them, to dispatch of the monsters under their beds and the ghouls that haunt them at night, but they do not want  _ him. _

Geralt has grown accustomed to this sort of treatment over the years.

When he'd first started out, it had bothered him. When he was much younger, much more innocent, back in the days where his contact with humans had been limited, he had thought things would be easier. He'd thought that, perhaps one day, he would win mankind over, that he could make them realise that Witchers were not as monstrous as they may have seemed. 

That is not what had happened, though. He is tolerated and nothing more. It had been a long time since he had last tried to change this. He realised that it is easier to stay grey, easier to stay amongst the middle and neither pacify nor anger. So that is what he does, he observes, he fights what he is told to and he tries not to meddle with the strange ways of man.

He takes Roach from the ramshackle stables, gives her a quick pat on her flank before he heaves himself up into the saddle. With a quick, gentle knock with his foot, Roach sets into a canter and they make their way out of the village, entering the thicket of forest. 

Instantly, Geralt can smell old magic. It is the scent of a dragon, of an age-old creature who has walked this earth for centuries. 

There is no threat in the scent, no lingering sense of malice or hatred that burns amongst this forest and Geralt wonders once more why the locals are so intent on the beast being slain.

But, deep down, he already knows the reasons.

It is not the heroics they try to paint them out to be to hide their own sense of guilt. It is not to protect the children, it is not to keep their livestock thriving. The dragon has never harmed a single hair on their heads.

It is the promise of wealth, the fairy-tale fantasy. Dragons; hoarders. Renowned for their vast piles of riches, their rooms of gold and their cups of diamond and ruby and sapphire. 

None of that is real, though. It is fake, tales passed down through stories that were never wrought from the truth in the first place. Stories crafted by kings and queens, their brave soldiers who set out into the unknown and slayed these creatures without a moment of remorse. 

Dragons like beautiful things, that is true. But gold is not the only beauty on this earth and dragons, if anything, have an eye for what others may miss. 

Geralt knows the real reason they want the creature dead.

Dragons are territorial. They are defensive. They never attack first, they never  _ harm _ first; but they do retaliate. 

There are defences they lay out. The magic of this dragon is strong. It protects the forest, protects the lands that it calls home. 

If one were to try and fell a tree in these woods, they would find themselves unable to. Magic is woven into the air itself and every piece of natural creation that dwells within this forest is tied to it. An itch in the back of the head, if you wandered in with malicious intent. You would ready your axe to strike, light your matches but a voice would stop you. A rumbling from your very soul.

The dragon protects its home.

It is why this village is mostly scant of the monsters that plague the rest of the world. The dragon is protecting them, using its ancient magic to interweave their safety into the very fabrics of their lives. The dragon has been protecting them from the dangers of the world, and for what? For the humans to wish it dead? For the humans be willing to pay what they perceive to be a  _ monster _ to get rid of it?

It is not the gold that the dragon hoards, it is the  _ world _ . The world is its treasure and that is something that cannot be priced. The woodlands are worth infinitely more than all the gold in the world. A single flower is more beautiful in the eyes of a dragon than the whole contents of the royal treasury. 

It is believed that dragons cause destruction wherever they go. That they pillage villages and burn the world to the very ground. It is believed that the lands they inhabit are wastelands filled with only fire and death and destruction. 

That is not true. 

Dragons dwell upon the highest peaks of mountains. They dwell on islands far out to sea. Some protect caverns deep underground and many protect the forests and the woodlands where animals dwell and nature thrive.

Once, the world had been crawling with the creatures. The sky would have been lit up in rainbow light, bursting with the spread of red and green and black and gold. Their scales would have shimmered like stars under the moonlight and they would have thrived with the people, with the wildlife. The secret guardians of the very strands of the world. Always watching and always protecting their riches. 

But then along came men with their torches of fire and their contraptions of steel and brick and stone. The dragons had fought back, fought tooth and nail for the land they protected but for all the strength of a dragon, it dwindles under that of an army.

One by one the dragons were slain, one by one until the ones who survived made their new homes in long-forgotten lands. 

But villages were expanding, the population was growing and people were always looking for  _ more _ so now this dragon is in danger. 

The people want the land, they want the riches. They want  _ more, _ much more than they deserve, and if the price to pay for such a thing is a life of a beautiful beast; they could not care any less. 

Greed outweighs all and tales of old have warped their minds.

Geralt will not slay this dragon, nor will the people get what they think is rightly theirs. 

He could leave now. Turn his back on the dragon and this village, travel somewhere else. There was always work for a Witcher, in some place or another. He could use the coin.

But the dragon draws him in. The image of its scarlet wings against the sunlit sky is burned into Geralt's memory. In crimson flame, the dragon spreads its wings until it is all that Geralt can think about.

The dragon is enchanting and Geralt would like to meet the creature; that is if the creature would be willing to meet him.

So on he forages, continues his tread through the forest grounds.

The trees thicken as he heads deeper and deeper, as he grows nearer and nearer to the very heart of the woodland, where the creature of red lies as its guardian of fire. 

The morning light is low when he first steps in but it darkens as he walks forwards.

The trees are different, here. The rustling of their leaves is a whisper, a passing of information. They are watching Geralt, their gnarled trunks hiding eyes that lay in wait, observing. At first, they are intense; there is a fear that blusters through the forest in a gust of wind. They spy the glint of steel and silver, the swords at his side. Roach shakes her head, snorting in discomfort, and Geralt places a soft hand on her head, a comforting touch with the intent to soothe.

They travel through, the leaves growing thicker and the whispering of the trees growing louder and more tumultuous with each step.

They come to a decision, however. The very roots of oak and maple and birch and sycamore, they make their choice.

The forest brightens and the path ahead widens. The lowered canopy and the thickened leaves retreat, the claustrophobia lessens as the forest decides that they are not a threat. Or, more likely, the dragon does.

That is what the trees are doing, spreading their words to the very heart of the forest. The heart of the dragon. The creature is letting him pass, the creature is letting him draw nearer and nearer.

Geralt wonders if the dragon is just as curious about him as he is about it.

He urges Roach on into a quick trot and deeper they head into the thicket.

It is a beautiful place, perhaps one of the most beautiful places Geralt has ever stepped foot in. It reminds him of the time when he had first left Kaer Morhen, when the world had seemed so open and huge and large and endless; when he had believed that it was this land that would carve his future and it was this land that would make him truly happy.

He had marvelled at the very peaks of the mountains from far below, looked in wonder at the mist that swirled high above them, a whirlwind of soothing grey and white that dusted the very tops like powdered sugar. The twilight, the setting sun, the burning of the sky from blue into ember into ash. The sunrise, pink flooding across what had once been starlit black and washing the sky out anew into a fresh day.

He had seen the many wonders that this world had to offer and somewhere along the line he had lost his passion, his amazement and all the whimsies of the Continent.

Perhaps it was age, his almost-immortality that plagued him like a curse. A sunset is never any less beautiful but the more you see it the less you value it. He has seen thousands of sunsets, he will see thousands more. It is nothing new, nothing fresh. It is the world, one he has begun to take for granted.

Or perhaps it was the very darkest depths of the world that had created a cynicism in his mind. It was hard to appreciate beauty when you had seen what lay in wait underneath. The light of the world only hides shadows, for good may prevail but there is always darkness that lingers underneath. Time has shown him that, throughout the years. Time has shown him that beauty does not last. It decays.

Yet here he is, amongst this dragon's forest, and he feels some of his whimsy of so long ago return to him like stars shooting across the night sky. 

Where the woodlands had once been stone and cold and silent, where the only sounds had been the whispering judgements of the trees, it had now suddenly blossomed to life.

Underneath Roach's hooves there were flowers blooming. The spring crocuses barely rising from browned soil, their shades of lilac an orange and white threads of colour in the darkening underbrush. There are other flowers too, ones that Geralt recognises but has never bothered to name for he had never needed to know them. The nameless little plants are no less beautiful than the ones he recognises, however. For everything in this forest plays a part, everything amongst these walls of bark is of equal importance. 

There are a million shades of each and every colour under the rainbow. Blues that range from the most china-doll white, egg-shell blue so pale that it appears almost translucent, down to the darkest depths of royal blue and navy. Yellow to orange to red, pink and purple and lilac and white. All shades, all colours, all thriving in these little grounds of woodland.

Geralt notices a surplus of weeds, however. The flowers considered to be pests. The ones who are free, who grow where they wish and spread their seeds far and wide across the surface of the continent. Buttercups and dandelions, little spots of yellow, wide faces that beam out sunny and proud. They demand attention, they demand to be seen, yet so many wish they were not there.

A suitable plant to be found in a dragon's forest, Geralt thinks. Little flowers that people do not want. Bright and bold and unignorable, yet beautiful and delicate. Strong, yet soft. 

There are more and more as they get closer and closer to where the tower lies, where the heart of the forest rests and the red dragon sleeps. 

A path, they create. A path of bright gold, forming a winding road of yellow bricks. A royal welcome beneath the thickets of thistle and fern and bracken and clover.

The very woods seem to be alive and Geralt tilts his head back, lets the gentle lull of wind brush across his cheeks.

There is a song in the air, a tune being carried across the land.

He can taste it in the wind, feel it in his bones and heart and soul. 

The song of the forest. From the birds in the trees, it starts. There is the chattering of nightingales, their sorrowful bleat amongst the canopy of trees. Sparrows and bluetits and robins, too. Together they create a cacophony of sound, roaring in Geralt's ears yet still delicate, still fragile. They are joined by the percussion of a woodpecker, of a beak thumping into the bark of trees. There is the wind through the leaves, a whisper of sound that rushes to the very depths of Geralt's soul in orchestrated beauty. Beetles' footsteps on petals and leaves are the thudding of drums, swirling and mixing with the steady footsteps of fawns and deer and rabbits and squirrels.

The forest is performing, it is showing off. The magic runs through its foundations in silver threads and Geralt smiles. The dragon is putting on a show, one that is the very highest calibre. Even royalty could not piece together such an act, such a show of beauty at its very rawest form. Not for all the gold in the world could such a thing be created. Only a creature at one with the very pieces of the earth could manifest beauty in such a way.

But, Geralt notices, it is not perfect.

A bird misses a beat, the trees whisper too loud or the thumping of a fawn's footsteps stumbles. It is not perfection but that is not what they are striving for.

Perfection is a concept, it does not exist; not in reality, not in the world they live in. This is  _ real, _ this is nature. 

The wood knows this and their imperfections are perhaps what makes this all the more beautiful. 

So onward Geralt travels, sitting atop of Roach who adds her own little tune to the ongoing melody. So does Geralt himself, he realises.

His breaths, the rattling of Roach's reigns in his hands. His own very essence, his existence in this wood, has altered the tune. He is a piece of it, a very part of this performance. Intertwined with the threads of this world, of the dragon's haven of a lair. 

Or, more accurately, he has been allowed to become a piece of this. He has made his own music, his own tune, one that could never be repeated or replicated; not in a million years.

It is a gift from the dragon and such a thing seems strangely personal. Geralt feels his heart swell at the mere notion of such a thing, but shakes it off with a start. Yet nothing can deny the way he is drawn to this creature of old, nothing can deny the way these yellow-brick-buttercups lead him on a path to what can only be his destiny. He should hate this, he should be urging Roach in the opposite direction and urging her to gallop as far away from this place as possible, but Geralt feels nothing other than peace.

He had always perceived destiny as something unavoidable, a terrifying beast that would destroy him from the very inside out. However, here, it does not feel like that. Here, he feels safe. Here, he feels welcomed. 

Like a moth to a flame this dragon draws him in and Geralt lets himself be pulled. 

He travels for the day. When he grows hungry, there are berries laden with fruit and trees bowing under the weight of juicy apples. He has his own provisions, but that does not stop him from taking the fruits he has been offered.

He does not take too much, however. He merely takes what he needs and lets Roach graze to her content. He does not take any for the road ahead.

The forest seems to smile at him for this. It is pleased with his actions and Geralt is unaccustomed to the warmth that spreads through his chest at this, but he finds he does not mind it.

They continue until nightfall; until the dandelions and buttercups are hidden under a cloak of darkness and the path ahead is no longer visible. 

Mushrooms resting at the gnarled roots of trees begin to glow. They cast coloured light, that of sky blue and summer gold; fire red and sunrise pink. 

A grove is opened up to Geralt, he can hear the trickle of running water, smell the clearness of the air.

The grove is bathed in this technicolour light and the flowers once hidden by gloom sprouted out in carved colour. 

The very space Geralt inhabits feels sacred. Reminiscent of a place of worship, a church. As if created from stained glass, borne from fire and sand and dirt and built up with careful hands and an eye for the very threads of the earth itself. It is strong, powerful. But like the glass lining the stone walls of churches, it is still delicate, still easy to break.

Perhaps, somewhere amidst it all, there is a plea. 

If the dragon is slain then this will not survive. It will shatter into thousands of tiny pieces, technicolour diamonds of glass that will be unseen to the eye but still, they will cut and tear and break into tender flesh, draw blood and pain and misery and no longer will there be this light to dampen the dark. 

But Geralt does not mean to slay the dragon. 

He means to meet it, he means to see the creature that has protected such beauty with claws of steel and breath of fire. 

The grove is enticing, pleasantly warm despite the chill of night. It calls Geralt to slumber.

He does not light a fire, he does not need to. The mushroom glow casts all the light he needs and the air itself is warm and comforting like the touch of a soft blanket. 

Instead, he comes to rest on the ground, bedroll laid over the woodland floor.

Witchers do not need to sleep, it is an unneeded luxury. He could continue, could push himself further and make it to the tower before the next sunrise. Yet as he thinks this the forest itself seems to protest. Geralt catches a whiff of something in the air, it floats over from where the tower lies.

It is a scent that Geralt is not accustomed to, but he can't mistake its earthy tones.  _ Concern. _

It has been a long time since anyone has been concerned about him. People do not care for a Witcher's wellbeing, but the scent does not dissipate.

It stays and lingers and does not leave until Geralt is closing his eyes, drifting off to sleep.

The scent changes then. It is warm, cloying. It smells of cinnamon and nutmeg.  _ Happiness, _ he realises. 

For the first time in years, he sleeps untroubled by the dreams that plague him. The faces of those who he's had to kill, of people who have lost themselves to the curse of a monster, of those who have attacked and fought and have left him no choice but to defend. The monsters who have taken innocent lives and twisted them until there is nothing left. The ones who he could not save, no matter how hard he tried. Their faces do not bother him.

He sleeps all through the night.

x

He awakens the next morning and his back does not hurt, not one bit.

Usually sleeping on the floor like this does nightmares to one's spine, but not this time. The ground underneath him is springy with moss and surprisingly soft. It is more comfortable than it has any right to be.

Geralt is feeling well-rested, perhaps the best he has felt in decades, and even Roach looks brighter; more cheerful.

They continue their journey onwards, not before Geralt refills his waterskins at the nearby river, a little stream of sorts that runs clean and pure and sweet through the foliage. The water is cool on his skin, soothing. It catches the sunlight that escapes through the thick leaves of the trees, sends it back in shimmering sparkles that dance upon its surface in its own little performance.

Geralt watches it for a moment, spellbound, but once Roach has had her fill she nudges him, pushes him onwards. He hauls himself up onto her back and they continue. A new path has opened up, a new trail of dandelions and buttercups. Geralt can no longer see the soft glow of mushrooms, but he can feel their gentle light upon his skin.

Onwards they continue and the forest grows thicker, the scents grow stronger.

Geralt can clearly smell something. It is from the same creature as the night before. The one who had smelled of the earth and the ground and of spice and warmth. 

There is something human about it, but not entirely. Geralt thinks that it must be that of the dragon. He does not know this for certain, but his gut tells him that this guess is right.

As he gets nearer and nearer to the tower, the scent grows stronger. Where he had once been able to only pick up the faintest whiff of the scent, it now becomes easy to read. 

_ Impatience, _ he can smell. It is a slightly bitter sort of scent. Not entirely unpleasant, but it gets under the skin, feels like the legs of a spider running up and down one's arm. Geralt smiles, huffs a laugh to himself.

It is most certainly the dragon.

When he urges Roach to trot faster, to set out into a canter, the bitterness lingering in the air vanishes. Again, the scent of spice returns. Happiness. And then something more. Geralt remembers this scent but he cannot place it, he cannot remember the last time such an emotion had been directed at him.

It is sweet, innocent. It smells like the dew of grass on a fresh spring morning. The blow of wind over flowered fields. It is fondness, Geralt realises. 

_ Fondness. _

Geralt urges Roach forward, faster.

He is yet to meet this creature, yet to see the crimson of its scales in full glory, but still he feels drawn to it. He feels drawn to this creature of the earth, this beast of the trees and the leaves and the birds and the flowers. This creature of song, this creature of beauty. 

His heart is thumping and he feels… nervous. 

He does not know why, he does not understand why he feels this way, but for once in his life, he does not fear it.

It is foolish, perhaps, but he trusts this creature.

Maybe it is because it reminds him of himself. For a dragon is a fearsome kind of beast. It is no monster, it is no creation of evil, but it is strong and powerful and  _ rare.  _ It is hard to understand, it cannot be pinned down to simple pictures and definitions and stories. Just like Witchers, perhaps, dragons are not understood.

So they are feared, resented. People do not like them, they do not trust them. The only reason they are still alive is because they are difficult to kill.

But all they want to do is  _ protect.  _

x

The carpet of trees lessons and the light grows brighter. The path of dandelions and buttercups fades away, instead spreading out into a quilt of sunshine yellow that swathes around the chestnut of Roach's legs. The tower looms ahead and while its height may have seemed threatening to others, Geralt only feels an odd sense of calm. This place feels familiar and although he has never been here before, it feels like returning home. A feeling Geralt has not felt for a long time for it has been years upon years since he last had a place he could name such. Yet here he has found it. 

The dragon must be up there, somewhere. Geralt can smell it. He can smell the electricity in the air, static that makes his hair stand on end.  _ Excitement, _ this is. With a dash of nervousness, a scent of pollen that lingers underneath. 

There is an oak door, left slightly ajar as if waiting for him. It is small, covered in swathes of ivy that wrap around the brass handle and knocker in a sheet of dark green. 

It is surprisingly well-kept, considering a dragon of such considerable size would have no use of such a tiny door at the bottom of its tower. But it is not derelict, it is not fading with use. While the ivy has crawled all over its surface, as Geralt nears he can catch the bright shine of the polished brass and the wood is not rotting away, not in any shape of disrepair. It is pristine, well looked after. 

Somebody has left it open.

It is then that Geralt realises the entire forest has gone deadly silent. Where the woodland song had once accompanied his travels, there is now no noise. Not even a rustle of leaves, a whispering of trees. It is as if the entire world has taken in one deep breath, holding it and holding it, all waiting for something.

And then Geralt hears it.

A voice high up in the sky, from the tower. It comes from above, rising amongst the height of the fluffy midday clouds and then sinking down to Geralt's sensitive ears.

It is beautiful. 

The voice is high, lilting. It melds in with the very world as if it has always belonged there, as if it is a piece of creation itself. Up in the sky, it soars like the dragons crimson wings and the sun hits it, hits the membrane of sound and sends it spiralling downwards in stained light. It dapples over the very surface of the earth, spreads light across the flora and fauna and sends ripples across the lengths of rivers and streams and the surfaces of lakes. 

The words are in a tongue of old, one of the ancient languages. Geralt can make out words, make out brief phrases and sentences, but even this language is beyond his knowledge. It is something that has been long-forgotten, an ancient relic of times that no longer exist. Yet still, this singer has not forgotten. This singer, this twittering bird in the thicket of silence, remembers what has been lost.

Although Geralt cannot understand the words being spoken, the song is no less beautiful. In fact, the rolls and whirs of the ancient tongue, rising from a voice brimming with power and confidence, make the tune mysterious, sombre. There is nostalgia that swirls in its ancient depths and although Geralt does not understand, he feels this creature's sadness for a time that can never be returned. Geralt is left by the door of the tower; utterly starstruck.

Then rises another sound. Strumming. The tunes of a lute, notes plucked out from delicate fingers, talented fingers. Hands that know what they are doing. It flows with the voice, twists and turns and dances amongst the swathes of ivy and amongst the sunlight up above. The dandelions and buttercups and forget-me-nots and daisies swirling around Geralt's feet sway in time to the tune, their petals rustle and shift as if they themselves were dancing to the music. 

The world becomes alive, the things that cannot move suddenly spring to life until what feels like the entire Continent is held in the embrace of this beautiful music. It is as if this forest holds life itself in its mossy fingers and waterfall hair. It is surreal, a happenstance not quite of this earth. Yet destiny urges Geralt forwards, fate pushes him onward. 

Geralt enters the tower, heads up the stone steps. 

They are clean, not a cobweb in sight. Well dusted and well cared for, another thing that strikes Geralt as odd. There is supposed to be nothing but a dragon amongst these stone walls, but that voice was most definitely not the low growl of a dragon and what use could a dragon have for these steps? What creature that lies ahead could sing so beautifully and strum that instrument with such love and care and tenderness. 

Geralt supposes he will find out once he reaches the top.

He does not know what he will see. He does not know what lies ahead and while this lack of knowledge would usually unnerve him he finds himself unbothered. He feels safe, here. He feels protected. Destiny has worked her magic and he knows that whatever he finds beyond this tower will become a piece of him, a part of his world that he can never let go of.

The singing grows louder and louder and the strumming of strings rings out pure and true, a peal of laughter in between lyrics that change and shift and swell and grow.

The words change from languages of old until they are that of the common-tongue, lines spoken in sentences that the entire Continent could understand. The lyrics are sombre. They speak of loneliness, of a life long-lived, of a world of isolation when all that is wanted is someone to share it with. 

Whatever is up there, because Geralt isn't sure if this creature truly is a dragon, is lonely. 

Up and up Geralt walks, climbing and climbing up this spiralling staircase with a speed that his head is left reeling and his body left disorientated. Still, he pushes through the dizziness and rises higher and higher, taking one step at a time and then two and then three. He climbs and climbs and climbs and then eventually he comes to a door.

The song is coming to an end, the lyrics are coming to a standstill and the cacophony of sound is fading into gentle quietness.

Geralt twists the handle and pushes it open.

He steps in and a pair of blue eyes blink back at him.

He does not know what he was expecting, but it was not this.

The room is round, high. A bed rests in the corner, a double one with tall bedposts and a white veil covering clean and fluffed pillows. There is an old table in another corner, carved with the intricate pattern of waterlilies, and on it sits a quill and a fresh bottle of ink, with papers upon papers laid haphazardly on its surface. In fact, there are papers _everywhere_. The room is chaotic, disorganised and flurried with items. The paper is covered in words, in lyrics. In ballads and poems and writings of every kind.

There are drawings too, some hung up on the walls, some done in hurried sketches and clumsy strokes of black ink. On the walls, too. There are paintings. There are places that Geralt recognises, faces too. There is the face of the barmaid who had stunk of fear when he'd left. The blacksmith and his daughter. Faces of people Geralt doesn't recognise. Travellers and merchants.

These are the things that have been seen, Geralt realises. These are drawings of the world that revolve around this tower. The world outside the forest.

And there, sitting in the centre of this very embodiment of thoughts and feelings and whirlwinds of emotions, is a person.

Geralt does not want to say  _ human, _ because the person before him is most definitely not.

They are definitely human-esque, if one were to only glance upon them then they might be fooled into thinking there was nothing out of the ordinary within this figure. They have two arms, two legs, a pair of ears and eyes and a nose and a mouth. But they are not  _ human,  _ nor are they elf or dwarf or mage. They are something else entirely. 

This person is a he, Geralt can tell. That is what they go by, male. And he's beautiful.

He wears an outfit of red. Tailored trousers, bright crimson, fitted tight over long legs, crossed over one another on the chair he is perched upon. A form-fitting grey shirt under a red doublet, pulled tight across a breadth of broad shoulders, leading down to muscular arms and long, slender fingers wrapped around his instrument. A lute, Geralt realises. A slightly battered one, a thing that has been well-used and well-loved for many a year.

His face is young, youthful. a sharp jaw leading down to a squarish chin, high cheekbones that hollow out the depths of his cheeks, create long shadows across his face and highlight the pout of his blushed lips and the dip of his cupid's bow. A pointed nose, perhaps a tad wide, set across his face, upturned at the very end in an almost innocent, childlike manner. Tawny hair that curls around pointed ears. And then his eyes.

Sharp, strong. A blinding blue. Clearer than the clearest of water and brighter than the brightest of skies. Crystalline and sweet, not deep and dark but light like a summer's day or a winter morning. His pupils are elongated, not quite round but not quite slit like a cat's. They rest somewhere in the middle, an appearance which settles comfortably between half-animal and half-human. He is incredibly beautiful, Geralt realises; swallowing deeply. 

His nails are sharp but on one hand they have been filed down to his fingertips, the hand that he presses the strings of his lute down with. The one he strums with holds nails have been allowed to grow, talon-like and dangerous. The roots of them glint with red, the beds of his nails crimson fire that fades into pink. 

He smiles at Geralt and his canine teeth are sharp, pointed. Feral-like and most certainly not human. Along the length of his neck, across the bare patches of his skin (or the bits that Geralt can see, anyway) there are the traced patterns of scales. Deep crimson. The colour of fire. 

The smell, too. It is intoxicating, sweet but not overly so. Fresh and clean like the flowers that linger outside, the morning after a thunderstorm when the sky has been washed clean. And then, somewhere underneath it all, Geralt can catch the faintest whiff of chamomile, almost so deep-set that he barely notices it. He knows what the scent of chamomile means, knows what this smell signifies. He must be imagining it. He must be making it up. Chamomile is _desire._ (But Geralt knows all too well that his senses never fail him)

"You're a dragon." Geralt breathes out.

The man's smile widens and he tilts his head. "Why, yes. I suppose I am."

His speech is just as sweet as his singing and although his words hold no intention of melody, they still pour from his mouth like song. 

Geralt is spellbound. 

"So, Sir Witcher, are you here to slay me? To steal my hordes of gold and diamonds and jewels and to take my head back to be stuck on some rotting old spike?" He gestures around the room as he speaks of riches, throwing his head back with a laugh. His tone is lighthearted and his words hold no menace, but there is a shiver of fear that thrums through them. A measure of uncertainty. The line of his throat seems endless and as he laughs his adam's apple bobs, Geralt watches the movement studiously with his eyes and feels his own mouth become dry. He absently licks his lips, pushes his teeth into his bottom lip.

"No." Geralt rumbles back. 

The man breaks into a grin that is almost blinding. Geralt does not smile back, but the edges of his lips twitch just so and the man's smile widens.

"I can trust you, then?" The dragon asks, moving to a stand. He rests his lute on his vacated chair and moves slowly towards Geralt. His hands twitch by his sides, his fingers batting out a jaunty tune against his thighs and Geralt gets the faintest whiff of nervousness before it is quickly smothered.

"Yes." Geralt pauses. The man smiles impossibly wider, the corner's of his eyes wrinkling with the movement. His nose scrunches ever so slightly and Geralt notices the faded lines of freckles dotted across his cheeks.

He could stare at the dragon for the rest of his life, he thinks, even if he will live to the very end of time. But he can't keep calling him 'the dragon' or 'the man'. He must have a name.

"What's your name?" He asks.

The dragon lights up. "Ooh! Direct, I like it." He winks at Geralt, his smile turning coy for the briefest of moments before it's smoothed over into glee once more. Geralt catches the faintest whiff of another scent, but it's gone too fast for him to recognise it.

"I go by many titles, Sir Witcher. My full name is Julian Alfred Pankratz! Although over the years I have been named many things. Crimson Terror, a terrified human called me once as I flew overhead. Some call me simply 'The Dragon', a dreadfully dull title if you ask me, but the name you can call me, Sir Witcher...." He hums, tilting his head, eyes trained to a patch of wall above Geralt. He blinks a few times, twiddles with his fingers. "I trust you, I think, although we have not known each other very long. The trees have spoken of you. The flowers and the birds and the rivers too. For a man of such few words, my forest is very fond of you, as am I…" he trails off, as if lost in thought. "Call me Jaskier, please. I would like that very much." 

He pauses, looking at Geralt once more. "And how about you, good Sir! I can't keep calling you Sir Witcher forever and it  _ is _ rude to ask someone for their name and not even offer your own in return! Surely they teach you  _ some _ manners during all that Witcher-y training stuff?" His tone is in jest and Geralt is momentarily taken aback because, while he does not know quite what he was expecting, he hadn't imagined a dragon would be this… talkative. 

Jaskier, as he requested to be called, is looking at Geralt, an amused expression twisting on his brow. His grin widens as Geralt remains silent for a few beats.

"Geralt." He grunts out. 

"Ah! Geralt!" He cheers, he grabs Geralt's hands in his own and Geralt instinctively flinches at the touch. As though burned, Jaskier drops his hands and steps back. He looks… worried, upset. The smile slides off his face.

Geralt does not know what possessed him to do such a thing, but he feels a strange connection Jaskier, something that binds them together like the threads of fate. He steps forwards and retakes Jaskier's hands in his own. He knows his body-language is stiff and that the lines of his fingers are uncomfortable, he is not used to contact such as this, but Jaskier seems to revel in it.

"It has been such a long time since anybody has come to visit me! I used to have a lot of people who would come here but…" Jaskier's eyes flicker to the floor. "You know how it is with humans. They don't live all that long and the ones that come next trust you less and less until they're burning down the forests and blaming all their problems on little old me!" 

Jaskier keeps his tone lighthearted but Geralt can hear the pain that lingers underneath. He understands this. The curse of living such long a life. It is hard, to see the world change around you and for cities to rise and fall and for children to become parents to become grandparents to become dead. It is hard to see all of these things move and flow and change and then to look in the mirror and to see the same face you have always had stare back at you. Perhaps with more scars, more hollowness to the eyes, but never a wrinkle, never a sign of age. 

Geralt grunts in response, unsure of how to answer such a talkative creature, but Jaskier does not seem to mind. "Of course, there were the other dragons to keep me company. Did you know that the land I protected once spread much further than these woodlands I had now? My land once reached the foot of the mountains, miles and miles away. It's gone now, though. So are the others."

Still, Geralt says nothing, but he  _ understands _ this. He knows what it is like to watch your own race, your own brethren die out. Witchers were fading and the ones that died were not replaced. It was not exactly the same, but the parallels are there.

Jaskier seems to take comfort in Geralt's presence because he smiles at him, soft and unsure.

"I don't really know why I'm telling you all this. I think I'm just very intrigued by you, Geralt. I… perhaps I've gone mad for being up here, alone all these years, but I feel quite drawn to you. I- it's ridiculous, I'm sorry, you're probably tired of hearing me chatter on but-"

"What were they like?" Geralt interrupts, awkwardly. He cannot say why but he likes listening to Jaskier speak. He likes hearing what he has to say. 

Maybe it is because they are opposites. Where Geralt is quiet and reserved Jaskier has shown himself to be outright and trusting. He is open and easy to read, like a book. Geralt is tightly wound and hidden, always sneaking amongst the shadows where he can be forgotten and avoided. Jaskier demands attention, Geralt avoids it.

Yet at the heart of it all, they are quite similar. They are two sides of the same coin. And perhaps Geralt is being foolish, but he would like to stay here a while, learn more about this dragon with the blue eyes and blinding smile. 

He is captivated, as though destiny herself has led him here on her red strings of fate, pulled him closer and closer towards Jaskier. Geralt has never been fond of fate or destiny but here, right now, he does not mind it so much. 

"The dragons," Geralt continues because Jaskier is looking at him with confusion written plain on his face. "What were they like?" 

Jaskier smiles. He looks around the room for a moment, dithering. "Oh, you should probably sit down. I, uh, don't really have enough chairs. I don't get company all that often. Uh, here!" He grabs Geralt by the wrist and pulls him along to the bed. He pushes him down, sitting behind him, legs crossed upon the white mattress. Geralt turns to face him, trying to be wary of the dirt upon his shoes but Jaskier waves him off with a careless hand. "Don't worry." He says, ``Make yourself comfortable. I don't mind."

He takes a deep breath. "You really want to know about the other dragons?" He asks and Geralt nods, once. Quickly and curtly. Jaskier smiles. "Okay, then. If you're sure."

And Jaskier speaks well into the day until soon it is gone and the evening rises.

He speaks more of how his land that he protected was much more vast than it is now. It was almost five times the size, he had looked over the entire valley betwixt the mountains. "But times change," he had said with his eyes growing solemn. "People got scared and they didn't want a dragon watching over everything anymore." He fiddles with his hands, twists a bronze ring he wears upon his finger. "I gave it up. Some others did not and… well, it didn't end well for them." He pauses. "Dragons are strong but we do not like to kill. Not unless it is necessary but humans… they aren't like that. Not all of them."

Geralt knows this all too well. He hesitates for a moment, then gingerly places a hand upon Jaskier's shoulder. He looks up in surprise but leans into the contact, and on he continues.

He tells Geralt of the others he once knew. "Llain, her name was. A green dragon. She protected the mountains." And there are countless he mentioned. Other crimson dragons such as himself, countless green, countless black. Even a few gold. "They are real." He insists as Geralt involuntarily raises a sceptical eyebrow. "Don't look like that.  _ I'm  _ the dragon and I would know!" Geralt had shaken his head and rolled his eyes and Jaskier had laughed, but he had grown sombre as his tales continued. The vast majority of these dragons were now dead.

"Actually, there is one…" Jaskier pauses, fiddling about with his ring once more, a gesture Geralt has determined that is done out of nervousness. "A friend. A golden dragon. His lands were seized by men and they burned down his forests, but he managed to escape. His name was Borch. I'd… I'd like to see him again, one of these days, if he's even alive anymore."

He laughs, shakes his head. Yawns.

Geralt hadn't even realised what time it was, but already the sky outside is pitch black and illuminated by the twinkle of diamond stars. Geralt should probably check on Roach but he feels safe here. She will be fine, he thinks and he can always check on her come morning.

Jaskier is smiling at him but he pauses to yawn again, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his fists.

Dragons, as a species, struggle to function without much sleep. At one point in time, they would have hibernated for months at a time with no need for sleep other than that. But they had learned to adapt, when humans had started knocking at their doors with fire and arrows and steel, they had learned to stave off their need to hibernate and instead took up a cycle similar to that of a human's. 

"Sorry," Jaskier mumbles through another yawn, smiling sheepishly. 

"You should sleep." Geralt says, voice quiet and soft. He doesn't know  _ why _ but there's something about Jaskier that makes his heart  _ hurt. _ He feels a tenderness he hasn't felt in years and although Jaskier is a bit annoying, loud and ever-talking and jittery, Geralt finds it all rather endearing.

Jaskier grabs him, hands wrapping around his forearms. His cheeks are flushed and he digs his sharp teeth into his bottom lip, not enough to draw blood but enough to redden them into a hot flush. "Will you still be here when I wake up?" 

The question lingers in the air for a good few moments, Jaskier looking up at Geralt with wide, ocean eyes.

Geralt nods. Jaskier smiles. 

He yawns again and Geralt moves to stand, trying not to look as Jaskier flings off his doublet and tugs off his trousers, leaving him in just his undershirt, which he half-unbuttons until it hangs loosely around his shoulders. He doesn't seem to find anything amiss with this, probably something to do with the fact that he hasn't entertained any guests for centuries, and Geralt can't help but feel like this whole situation feels rather… domestic.

He studiously tries to ignore the pale skin of Jaskier's chest that has just been revealed, the sharp lines of his collarbones all covered in a spattering of dark chest hair. He gulps, turns away to hide the heat rising to his cheeks, (he knows that Jaskier will not be able to see the flush, for Witchers cannot blush, but he can  _ feel _ the heat and it leaves him hot and embarrassed) instead trying to focus his attention on the pages upon pages of writing strewn upon Jaskier's desk. 

When he turns back around, Jaskier has nestled himself underneath a thicket of duvets and blankets, swathed around him like a nest. He sleeps on his stomach, head tilted to the side so he can still breathe with comfort. He sleeps to one side of the double bed, close enough that one of his hands dangles off the edge, and his legs are straight, toes peeking off the edge of the bed. His hair covers his face, long and curled and soft-looking. 

Geralt gets the urge to brush it off of his face, to feel those locks in between his fingers.

He shakes his head, fights it, and instead busies himself with looking through Jaskier's writing.

It's… good. Really good. Some of it is written in languages Geralt has never seen before, but others he can read and understand and  _ feel _ the emotion oozing off the black ink in every single word written down. The handwriting is clumsy but graceful. As though Jaskier had written them down in a flurry, teeth chewing on his bottom lip and hands scrubbing through his hair as he simply lets the words fall from his head into pen onto paper.

Geralt is a man of few words, he is no fan of poetry or flowery language or all the millions of ways that people can say one thing. He is someone who uses as little words as possible, who says the barest minimum and only speaks when necessary. He likes  _ this _ , though. He likes Jaskier.

"You know, this bed is big enough for two." Geralt hears a mumble from the corner of the room. Jaskier has lifted his head, sleep-ridden eyes looking over at Geralt, twinkling. There's a tired smile tugging at his lips and he scrubs his hand through his hair, mussing it up until it sticks out in all odd directions. Geralt feels his mouth goes dry.

He doesn't move for a few moments and Jaskier buries his face in the pillows once more, but eventually, he rises to a stand. 

He does not know why but he feels a connection with Jaskier. Perhaps it is fate, destiny. He has never believed in such a thing, never liked the idea of such a thing, but this time he thinks he might make an exception.

This loud, annoying, chatty red dragon who laughs loud and clear and sings like an angel has somehow managed to capture his attention, draw him closer as though they are tethered together by string.

It is then that he finds himself hesitantly stripping down to just his underclothes, lifting up the corner of the duvet, climbing into the side Jaskier is not occupying. The bed dips and shifts with his weight and it is only when he has settled, lying on his back, that he feels a surge of warmth against his side. Jaskier has moved closer to him, nestling into his side.

Geralt's instincts scream at him to stiffen, to tighten, to defend; but he overrides these thoughts. Instead, he lets himself relax and, gingerly, he curls into Jaskier's embrace. He holds him closer, holds him tighter, and allows himself to sleep.

Meeting a dragon, meeting  _ Jaskier, _ sleeping with him in his bed as though they have known each other for years, sharing these tender touches and glances… It is like a fairy-tale. Although the thought is ridiculous and the mere idea of it makes Geralt feel childlike and foolish, he can't say he dislikes  _ this. _

It is good, whatever this is. 

When he sleeps he dreams of red alight in the morning sky and the brightest blue eyes he's ever seen. He dreams of laughter ringing out like the peals of bells and of a warmth by his side as he travels across the expanse of the Continent.

Once more, he is untroubled by nightmares.

x

He awakens to the strumming of a lute and the hum of a low voice. 

He opens his eyes to see Jaskier perched upon his desk, eyes shut and head tipped back. He lets the music wash over him, sits there and allows his fingers to move as if on their own, the melody coming to him as natural as breathing. 

He is wearing something different, now. Again with the tightly fitted trousers, but they are now a light shade of navy. They pair with a doublet of blue, with gold embellishments that run down the front, yellow diamonds lined with fabric of red. The shirt underneath is low cut, half undone and once more revealing the sharpness of his collarbone, the thatch of chest hair that has Geralt's blood running hot. 

He looks over at Geralt and it is there that the scent hits him. It had always been there, Geralt realises, underneath it all. From the very second they had laid eyes on each other, but it had been hidden and oppressed, blocked behind silver veils. Now, however, it has been set free.

It smells of Chamomile.  _ Desire. _

He blinks at Jaskier and he smiles at him, sharp teeth and all. "Back to the land of the living?" He asks, fingers still plucking away at his lute. 

Geralt grunts. Jaskier huffs out a laugh.

"Are you always this talkative or is this just for me?" 

He laughs again, placing his lute down and coming to the bed. He grasps Geralt's hands, fingers trailing momentarily around the wrists, squeezing gently, before he pulls him up. He laughs a lot, Geralt has noticed, and he likes the sound of it. Makes something warm blossom in his chest, something pleasant twist in his heart. He has the most ridiculous urge to try and make Jaskier as much as possible. He doesn't know where such a thought has come from, where this sentimentality has risen from, but he does not fear it. Not here, not with Jaskier.

"Can I see you? As a dragon?" Geralt blurts out, ever the conversational master. Jaskier blinks, hands stilling around his wrists, before his smile grows tenfold. He nods, pulling Geralt up to his feet, dancing about the room in a frenzy. Geralt doesn't miss the way that Jaskier's eyes trail down his body, however, nor the way his pupils dilate just so. Nor does he miss the ever-growing scent of chamomile that hits him like a brick wall.

He gets dressed and Jaskier pretends he isn't watching but Geralt can feel the heat of his gaze against his skin. He smiles to himself. Who knew dragons could lack such subtlety. 

Then Jaskier is pushing Geralt down the stairs, demanding that he wait outside. "I need a lot of room." He says. "And I mean  _ a lot _ of room. Also, I don't really know what I look like when I change, kind of hard to find a mirror big enough to see it happen, you know, so I might look awful mid-transformation and I don't want  _ anyone _ to see that." He laughs again but it is short and nervous, he's playing with the ring around his finger again, twisting it almost obsessively. 

Geralt places a hand on his shoulder, quietening his incessant chatter and then goes to leave.

Outside, he stands beside Roach, a soothing hand on her flank as she nuzzles against him. She looks healthy, her coat the shiniest Geralt thinks it has ever been. 

And then, it happens. 

There's the darkness of shadow above them and when Geralt looks up, there he is.

Jaskier, in his true form, flying high above in the spring sky. The sunlight hits him, turns the membrane of his wings to vibrant orange of fire, childlike pink and buttercup yellow. He comes down to the ground, not before looping around the tower, twisting and turning this way and that in a mass of vibrant colour. ( _ Show off, _ Geralt thinks to himself) 

He stands before Geralt and perhaps others would feel fear at standing before such a fearsome creature, for Jaskier  _ is _ fearsome in this form, but Geralt does not fear him one bit.

From this close, Geralt can see the fire of his scales. The glimmering red that lines him in spikes sharp enough to slice through flesh. The wings are tucked by his side, but still, they are large and powerful and lined with that silvery membrane that reflects the light back in technicolour waves. Muscles hardened beneath the armour of scales and they shift and move with every twitch of the dragon's body. The underbelly is a lighter shade of red, rosy and pale and soft looking, but protected by a set of sharp talons, golden-tipped and gleaming. A set of fangs, large, pointed teeth and a forked tongue that slits out from between scaled lips. He is _b_ _ eautiful. _

The eyes, however, are the same. That same cornflower blue. 

"You do not smell of fear." Jaskier rumbles and his voice is much deeper, more gravelly, but still, it sounds like him. "They always smell of fear, but you don't." 

Geralt steps forward, steps closer to Jaskier. "I don't fear you." He says and he means it. "You don't smell of fear around me, either."

Jaskier hums, a deep rumble in his chest, and lowers his head until his eyes lay level with Geralt's. "I suppose that makes us similar then." He tilts his head and, although it is hard to tell in this form, Geralt thinks he is smiling. 

Instinctively, he places a tentative hand on Jaskier's scaled snout. He holds it there, before carefully shifting his fingers, stroking the scales like he would stroke Roach. 

Jaskier's eyes flutter shut and he lets out a deep rumble, not unlike a cat purring.

Geralt tries to hide his smile but fails. 

Then Jaskier pulls back, retreats, looks at Geralt through half-lidded eyes. "I hope you don't mind if I change back. It's a bit uncomfortable, looking down at you like this." Jaskier rumbles, tilting his head from side to side, swaying ever so slightly on his feet. Geralt nods. Jaskier stares at him. "Can you… uh, close your eyes? Or look away, or something. I just…" And Geralt watches in half-disbelief as Jaskier, a crimson dragon who stands at least triple Geralt's height,  _ dithers. _

Geralt complies, amusement twinkling in his eyes and the red dragon before him looks flustered. He closes his eyes, feels a shifting of magic about him, a gust of wind. Then he feels skin against his own, tugging at his hands. Jaskier, human-esque once more, stares up at him. 

"Take me with you." Jaskier breathes and Geralt freezes. 

"I can't." The words sting and Jaskier frowns but this is true. Jaskier must stay here, he must protect his lands. He can't just get up and leave and he certainly can't go travelling around the Continent with him.

"Please. I- I can't stay here." Jaskier gulps and he suddenly appears so frightened, so lost. He plays with the ring upon his finger yet again. "These forests are dying." He whispers and Geralt can smell the rot. Jaskier does not lie. Geralt had not noticed it earlier, but the magic of the forest is waning. Jaskier's power, his services of protection, are gradually beginning to die out. It is the fate of every dragon eventually, for them to lose their homelands. It is inevitable. But once this place is gone, there is nowhere for Jaskier to run to. He will be alone, he will be vulnerable. In this form he is no fighter, he will have to run and hide and make sure his secret stays safe. As a dragon, a single sighting of him would have a royal army chasing at his heels. 

He will have nowhere to go. But he could go with Geralt. 

Jaskier looks up at him, takes a step back but does not let go of Geralt's hands. Instead, he turns them over in his. Where Jaskier's are smooth and supple, calloused on the very fingertips, Geralt's are hard and scarred and the tendons pulse under Jaskier's gentle touch. He squeezes them, ever so gently.

"It is the way of the world," He begins. "To decay. I have guarded these lands for so long but the world is changing, Geralt. A dragon's use is waning and I can't stay here forever." 

He shifts, weight falling from one leg to the other. "I've not been outside this forest for years and years. Sometimes I feel as if I'm trapped here. That one day I'll rot away with the rest of the land." 

He drops Geralt's hand, only to raise his fingers against Geralt's cheekbone, across his jaw. The touch is warm and careful and soft. Jaskier's eyelashes flutter and his lips are stained red, his teeth pushed into them. "Do you believe in destiny, Geralt?" He questions, hands still stroking Geralt's jaw. 

His eyes flicker down to Geralt's lips, there's crimson high upon his cheekbones and Geralt has never been a man of words so he instead he does what comes easiest to him, he acts.

He leans forward, leans down ever so slightly, and Jaskier's lips meet his. 

He'd heard tales of love at first sight, of all that sappy fairy-tale shit, of your soulmate and the one person in the world who was made for you, who you would be drawn to and spend an eternity of happiness with them. Geralt had always thought it a load of shit, he still does, to be honest. But here, right now, with Jaskier… it feels right. 

Jaskier's lips are warm, smooth, soft. A bit chapped where he has bitten them. He tastes sweet, of honey and sugar, something deep and rich and mysterious that Geralt wants to taste forever. 

All too soon, Jaskier pulls away. His eyes are dark and his breath is quickened, ghosting over Geralt's skin. He smiles nervously again, cheeks high with a flush. "I'm afraid I'm not too good at fighting in this form," he gestures down at himself, a slight hint of self-consciousness swirling in his voice. "But I can play the lute and I can sing."

He trails his hands down, resting lightly on Geralt's chest, fingers twiddling with the fabric of his shirt. "I could be your barker!" He says, eyes lightening with excitement. "I can spread tales of the heroical acts of Geralt, Sir Witcher. The White Wolf." Geralt shakes his head, not in disagreement but in slight exasperation. This only seems to further Jaskier's excitement. 

"All it takes is a few songs, a few… exaggerations here and there and then people's perceptions will begin to change. Ever since you stepped foot in my forest I've been able to  _ smell  _ it on you. Fate and destiny, heroics,  _ adventure,  _ and…" Jaskier pauses, sniffing. "Is that a bit of onion I smell?" Geralt rolls his eyes, shoves him gently.

"Why haven't you left before?" Geralt asks before he can stop himself. Because it's true, what's changed now? He could have left in this form years ago, a well-placed cloak and a hand to hide the mouth would have sufficed to hide the fact that he's not entirely human. 

"I never had a reason to leave," Jaskier says and his voice is solemn, serious.

"I know you travel alone, Geralt. And I know that perhaps a companion is not the sort of thing you have been searching for…" He trails off and the self-consciousness returns. 

"I know you do not need a fighter, you're certainly good enough at that. Nor do you need a creature to ride upon and I do not wish to take the place of your noble steed, even if riding around on a dragon would be _much_ more impressive. But, perhaps, you could do with a friend." 

Geralt captures Jaskier's lips with his own once more. 

He has never needed somebody to travel with, never needed a companion or a friend. He has been content with what he already has, the stoic, comfortable silence of Roach. He certainly wouldn't have wanted a dragon who can never seem to stop talking, who sings and dances and laughs and makes jokes and does  _ everything _ loudly to travel alongside him.

Yet here they are.

And Geralt, against his better judgement, agrees.

x

They leave the tower behind come the next morning. Jaskier's lute strapped to his back, an extra pack slung across Roach and the sun rising high over the horizon.

As they make their way back to the nearby village, Geralt holding a bundle of dragon's fangs in his hand, ("My baby teeth." Jaskier had announced to Geralt's amusement. "Perhaps if they pay us enough for my 'death' then we can afford you a nice bath. I'm sure there's something nice under all that onion.") Jaskier sings, voice soaring high amongst the trees.

He makes his own music and the forest bends around him. Just like before, Geralt is a part of this song and together they soar. 

Geralt cannot see what may lie on the road ahead but he finds himself, for the first time in years, looking forward to the future. 

A dragon-turned-bard and his Witcher companion. Geralt thinks that would make for a nice song. 

**Author's Note:**

> the world needs more dragon Jaskier honestly and idk if this is any good but i had to write it so here you go
> 
> also my tumblr is @ohmygoshwhatascream if any of yall wanna scream about geraskier with me bc hhhhhhhh would like that


End file.
